


did we, didn't we, should we, couldn't we

by corposurreal



Category: Rocketman (2019), Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sappy Shit, these men are soft, you know how it be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 11:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20227312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corposurreal/pseuds/corposurreal
Summary: Maybe there was a part of Taron that knew he was too personally invested in the dynamic to be entirely objective about the jilted romance they were meant to be portraying.





	did we, didn't we, should we, couldn't we

**Author's Note:**

> hopping on that generic sappy train. supported, encouraged, and inspired by my roomie
> 
> caveat: i have no idea what the filming process for a movie looks like so please roll with the inaccuracies
> 
> title is from "we all fall in love sometimes" by elton

It was never meant to be this way.

_ It _being Taron's first time with a man - although that was a misnomer, wasn't it, because this was acting, and this was as much of a real experience as him becoming an Olympic athlete, or British intelligence, or - god forbid - an anthropomorphic, singing gorilla. But there was something to be said about the adjacent-to-reality sensation of lying in bed, mostly nude with another underdressed person splayed over you in your mutual pose of post-coital exertion... even if it wasn't really that, all things considered. It wasn't as though they had actually slept together. The staring eyes of the crewmates and the cameras were enough to remind him that this was a set, not a private space.

And yet, somehow, a sense of missing something nagged at him.

The shot was winding to a close. He exhaled slowly, blinking in tired awe, playing out Elton’s marvel of sleeping with a man for the first time. It was easy to capture the feeling, what with Richard still strewn on top of him, Taron's fingers tracing along Richard's back sleepily, like they were both about to drift off in this exhausted embrace. Of course the act hadn't been as simple as feigning a romp in the bedroom - it had been more like hours of angles and reshoots and undressing and redressing, turning the ultimate display of intimacy into a disjointed set of clips that would be given some guise of coordination sometime after the fact.

But this was slated to be the end of it for the day. And when the D.P. called it, Taron found himself both relieved (who knew that pretending to have sex could be as tiring as the real thing?) and disappointed in a way that he wasn't ready to examine too closely. Richard lifted his head and met Taron with a cheeky smirk before peeling himself out of bed, rising with a decisive ease that Taron couldn't match with his own shaking legs. 

Despite earlier plans to get dressed and find food as soon as possible, Taron found himself lingering in the dressing room for far longer than was necessary. Richard had thrown on his clothes and ducked out almost immediately, saying something that Taron hadn't quite caught in the midst of his mental haze. Dimly Taron wondered if there was a degree of awkwardness that Richard felt the need to shake with some distance, but he was still too preoccupied with his own post-scene decompression to dwell on it for long.

His propensity to throw his mental and emotional all into roles was a boon when it came to biopics, particularly this film, but it was also a drain beyond any physical rigours of the shooting process. There were times he felt as though he wasn't putting on a show at all, but living through the tumult of the man he was portraying, both during the highs and lows. The valleys were by far the most taxing, sometimes requiring very deliberate effort to pull his mind from the mires of hurt and anger after the fact. There had been days he had retired to his hotel room only to break down into hot tears behind closed doors, desperate for catharsis from an experience that wasn't even real.

This was similar but different in a way that he hadn't yet defined. He sat in the corner of the dressing room, smoothing his hands over the sweatshirt he could finally wear after hours of dancing about in either a costume or the nude, but the fabric did nothing to erase the ghostly cling of another person's skin against his own. He felt as though he needed something to shake the strange mood that the afternoon of filming had left him in, but it didn't seem to be as simple as having a good cry this time.

Maybe there was a part of Taron that knew he was too personally invested in the dynamic to be entirely objective about the jilted romance they were meant to be portraying. 

He brushed his fingers over his lips, still raw from having been pressed against Richard's over and over, the desperation they had to act out not diminished by repetition. At least, Taron had never tired of the elaborate dance. Richard's apparent ease with shedding the persona of John Reid as soon as the cameras were off seemed to indicate different priorities on his mate's part. Taron envied him that much; it would make his current predicament so much simpler.

The short version was that, at some point early on during filming, Taron had realised there was some kind of deeply buried, as-of-yet unspoken desire to do more than go through the motions of feigned attraction to another man. Further time had passed, and Taron had refined the nature of his cravings to Richard specifically. Passing it off as the results of his method emotional acting, he had been able to repress most of the urges (beyond some confusing dreams he had no control over), trying his best not to think of it beyond the initial acknowledgement.

Until this scene.

It wasn't his "first time," and thinking of it as such was going to do him no favours. Too late he recognised that he had let himself fall too far into the rabbit hole of pretending that there was real world chemistry between him and Richard. He hadn't slept with Richard - Elton had slept with Reid, and letting himself believe anything otherwise had only contributed to the issue he had been trying to shove to the back of his mind for weeks now.

But now it was at the forefront of his thoughts, and there was no choice but to deal with it.

"Fuck," he announced to the empty dressing room.

It felt petty, silly... like a schoolboy crush, except this was a pretend attraction he had exacerbated into legitimacy with his tendency to delve into the minds of the characters he played. He might've been able to dismiss it for as long as it took to get shooting over and done with if he didn't get along so damn well with Richard. People had assured him ahead of time that the two would get on like a match to tinder, and though he couldn't have anticipated them being so right, it was true - he and Richard had become fast friends, and Taron had no intentions of leaving Richard high and dry even after they had finished with the movie.

Of course, that meant Taron was going to have to address his little problem before it became something much larger than it already was. Time didn't typically help these situations for him, especially when proximity was involved.

His phone buzzed, and he had a sense of who it would be before he even checked the notification.

_ \- Food? _

Taron stared at Richard's message, a noise of helpless despair caught somewhere in his throat. This wouldn't help him at all, not at that exact moment - but he was weak and the agreement was sent out before his conscience could prevent him from taking the safer road. 

_ You have self control, _ he told himself, feeling a bit foolish about arguing with his own brain. _ Just don't act like a tit, and you'll be fine. _

Though that was usually easier said than done when his bumbling, smitten self was at the helm. He prayed that Richard wouldn't cotton on to any wayward hints of infatuation. Now that the mental dam was down, Taron felt as though he was standing on a great precipice, one that would drop him into a vast chasm of regret should he make one false step. There was no more being ignorant to his own stupid feelings; now he had a responsibility to not be an idiot.

They made plans to meet at a nearby pub in fifteen. Taron briefly debated squeezing in a quick shower at the hotel room before heading out, but even that felt like trying too hard (ridiculous as he knew it was to think too much about showering, of all things - not like Richard would interpret hygiene as a come on, but by now Taron was paranoid). Instead he took the time to practice some simple breathing exercises to clear his mind before seeing Richard face to face. They had gone out to hang plenty of times before, so it wasn't as though this was anything new. It only felt that way after having writhed against each other for a few hours. Such was the business.

Taron wished it was as simple as chumming with people he had pretended to murder in other films. Somehow _ this _had to be different.

\--

"You were in my dream last night."

"Really?" Taron's voice very nearly broke as he said it, but with great effort he was able to keep it level. "Must've been a nightmare then."

Richard grinned - wide and genuine, so different from the tight, controlled smiles he would don as Reid - and finished off his first pint before continuing. "Nah, it wasn't so bad. I don't really remember what you were up to, but I think it had something to do with a heist of some kind."

"Shit, you're onto me," Taron said, feeling the tension in his chest loosen. He wasn't sure what he had expected - surely nothing as questionable as his recent subconscious theatre - but knowing it was something benign made him feel a bit better. "My plans to steal the whole wardrobe are ruined."

"Not at all," Richard replied with one eyebrow quirked upwards. "I was going to offer to help."

Taron snorted a laugh. He couldn't meet Richard's eye for a moment, knowing that catching a glimpse of the mirrored glee would more likely than not fluster him further. He was thankful for the easy rapport, at least; whatever anxieties he had felt about awkwardness after the filming were unfounded, given that Richard was as smooth and easygoing as ever. 

Though easygoing was a relative term with regard to Richard, buttoned down (literally and figuratively) as he was wont to be in contrast to Taron's more exuberant nature. Not that Richard was frigid, but he was capable of maintaining a cool, professional persona where demanded. On the few occasions that he had let himself relax, alcohol had been involved, and even then he managed to retain an air of dignity while Taron went off acting like a loon. It was a useful balance between the two of them, but Taron sometimes wondered if Richard's composure was natural or the result of self repression.

Taron had always been envious of his mate's control, whatever its root cause. It would've been helpful many times over. Taron sometimes felt he wouldn't know repression if it bit him on the nose.

"I've dreamt about you too," Taron said, before he could stop himself. Ah, yes, and there it was - the words were out of his mouth without thinking, leaving plenty of room for his foot.

"Really now? Hopefully I was a bit less troublesome in your dream." 

Taron delayed further explanation by ordering another round as the server passed near their table. The precious seconds he bought weren't enough to dissuade Richard's expectant expression, though, and Taron knew he had to dig himself out of this hole at top speed.

_ Just lie, _ he hissed to himself, if a voice inside one’s head could hiss. _ You don't need to go telling him about that fantastic snog you had. LIE. _

His faint buzz and the day's musings had other ideas, however, and the curiosity was just too great.

"I dunno. You kissed me, so that might be just as bad as grand theft wardrobe."

_ Idiot. Fucking idiot. _

When Richard didn't respond immediately, Taron slid effortlessly from intrigue to panic in mere seconds. "Probably just the filming getting to my head, y'know." He made an attempt at a genuine laugh, but it sounded oddly shrill even to his own ears. "Please don't start coming onto me while we're in public."

"Ah, I'll do my best to be patient," Richard said with a wry smile (one that was a bit too close to that calculated Reid smirk, but Taron tried his best to ignore that). His face was maddeningly inscrutable, but at least he hadn't run for the hills. Taron allowed himself a modicum of relief... until he could self-flagellate back on his own time, anyway.

"Right, yeah." The words tumbled stupidly from his lips, but they weren't any worse than actually admitting to lascivious dreams about the two of them. He was saved from having to fumble any further by the arrival of more beer, which he chose to dive into with an indecent, perhaps telling enthusiasm. He had the awful sense that Richard was studying him as he suffered, but Richard remained pleasant and impassive.

_ Be cool. Drop it and move on. _

"So what's tomorrow, again?" Taron asked, voice still too high for his liking. "What scenes, I mean."

"Day off. Remember?" 

"Shit, you're right. Completely lost track." Perfect timing for a break from filming; now Taron could dedicate an entire day to sitting in his hotel room, beating himself up for acting the fool. Principal photography had been rigourous at best (with merciful, generous cooldown for more heated scenes), so days off were a blessing in numerous regards. This one just happened to be particularly convenient.

"Can't blame you, after today." Richard tipped a quick wink as he said it, and Taron's heart stumbled.

_ be cool be cool be cool _

"Don't give yourself too much credit," Taron replied, and he was proud of himself for summoning believable banter from somewhere beneath his embarrassment. 

"Who says I was talking about me?"

Taron's mouth fell open; it took several agonising seconds for him to acknowledge that there was no witty comeback arriving in any sort of timely fashion, and so he snapped his mouth shut again. His heart was practically staggering now, lolloping along in his chest to an anxious, arrhythmic beat. Richard was clearly just joking around, but Taron was in no position to meet the comments with anything resembling composure. Not now, not today - not given everything. With horror, Taron realised he could feel heat rising in his face, and he prayed that the pub was dimly lit enough to hide any telltale blushing.

"Please," Taron said, with something that might have been a scoff on a good day but ended up coming out as a sad sort of wheeze. "I think I might still be dreaming, with what you're playing at."

"Either that or we're both drunk already." Richard continued to gaze at Taron with mischievous eyes as he took a long draught from his beer. "Sorry. You're just so cute when you're all worked up."

"Excuse me?" Taron blustered. "You're the one--"

"Macking on you in your dreams, yeah," Richard interrupted, still smiling that infuriating, unreadable smile. "Relax, T. I can tell you're all..." He made a jittery, hand waving gesture around his head. "... about today. You’re all right. I mean, we've seen each other mostly nude, so now there's really nothing else to hide."

Taron knew, was certain Richard didn't mean it that way. Clearly he was referring to the ease with which their friendship could continue now that they had pretended to shag each other, because what could be more ridiculous than that, ha ha - but the opening was there, and Taron knew he was toeing the edge of that precipice again.

But this wasn't the place or the time, nor was it even a true invitation to go spilling his guts. And thankfully, this time Taron managed to stay his tongue.

"You're not allowed to judge me." Taron jutted a finger in Richard's face. "You get to look good, while I had to go all soft for this role."

"Ah, you look fine," Richard said with a dismissive wave. "Better hair, anyway."

"For _ now _..."

Just when he thought he wouldn't be able to steer the subject away from utterly life-ruining confessions, Taron managed to coax their conversation back into much safer territories. If Richard had noticed anything staggeringly amiss, then he didn't show it (not that he was likely to do so anyway, the stoic bastard, but Taron would accept the small victory regardless). The night proceeded with plenty more booze and no further gaffes, and Taron congratulated himself on having saved himself from committing an egregious social faux-pas.

He neglected to consider that the evening was still young.

\--

Taron's first indication of consciousness was a distant awareness of noise - indistinct and muffled, but definitely beyond the confines of his dreams. The next bit of information he processed was that he was now in bed, safe in his hotel room if the texture of the duvet was anything to go by. He was missing the bit of the night that had carried him back to his quarters, but he did have a dim recollection of leaving the pub and making an agreement to continue the revelry with room service.

It felt as though the details were creeping one by one into his half-asleep, still-drunk brain as he lay with his eyes shut. Richard. He had been out with Richard, and they had made the decision to burn the night partying since they didn't have to shoot the next day. Had they called a taxi? No - they had stumbled to the hotel (Taron couldn't recall, but he prayed that he hadn't started singing on the walk), called room service, and then... the remainder of the hours spent before passing out were left in a blur.

Taron didn't feel a headache yet - still too sloppy, he figured - but exhaustion pounded behind his eyelids. He had no idea what time it was, nor what had woken him up, but he wanted to fall back into the healing lull of unconsciousness as soon as possible.

He reaffixed his grip around the pillow he was cradling, and --

It wasn't a pillow.

"Mmph." The noise that Taron had heard earlier repeated itself, and Taron opened his eyes to see it coming from a distinctly Richard-shaped lump under the duvet. Even in the low light, Taron could make out a tuft of dark hair poking out from under the covers - the covers over which Taron had slung an arm, cosied up to his mate for god knows how long.

Taron had heard people claim that their blood had turned to ice, but never once had he felt the sensation so instantly. He might have gone fully petrified, from his heartbeat to his breathing. 

The only bit of him racing was his mind, no longer sluggishly processing memories but fully sprinting through the haze, scrambling desperately for the events that had led to them passed out in bed together. Had they - no, no, Taron was still wearing his sweats from earlier, and he had to assume that any sort of... activity... would have been somehow tangible upon waking. 

But just because - that - Taron couldn't even think the words - hadn't happened, it didn't mean he hadn't made an ass of himself in numerous other fashions. Had he told Richard anything? Had he propositioned him? Or - and this might have been the worst option - did they fall asleep in the same bed, as friends staying over sometimes did, and Taron's sleeping self had made the unconscious decision to cuddle up to Richard without any sort of discussion?

Taron finally regained enough of his motor skills to slowly, _ excruciatingly _ slowly pull his arm away, hoping not to wake Richard in the event that the midnight embrace was still unknown. Once his arm (or rather, Richard) was free, Taron rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, all earlier desire to fall back asleep now forgotten. His heart had resumed galloping in his chest, and Taron was unsure whether his sudden onset nausea was from the booze or his idiotic behaviour.

There would be no knowing if Richard remembered anything until the morning, but Taron wasn't sure if he could survive until then, his heart felt so close to exploding. He was seriously debating leaving the bed and crashing on the futon, if only to give himself a touch of plausible deniability, when the Richard-shaped lump in the bed made another noise, this one almost a word.

"Trrnnn." The lump rustled as Richard turned over.

"Yeah mate," Taron whispered back, now aware of how dry his mouth had become.

Richard reached up and pushed the duvet away from his face, turning to face Taron with his eyes still closed. "Yalrite," Richard muttered, an entire sentence condensed into a sleepy mush.

"Yeah, yeah I'm good. Sorry to wake you. Go back to sleep."

"Mm." Richard rolled over again, this time in Taron's direction, and to Taron's mixed horror and wonderment, he felt an arm creep under the covers and across his own chest in a gesture not unlike the one he had recently withdrawn. 

Now Taron was the one trapped by a possessive arm, with Richard pressing his face to Taron's shoulder (and out like a light already, judging by the steady breathing). Taron continued to stare at the ceiling, unwilling to glance at the man entwined around him, as if confirming the sight would be the thing to wake him from this new, cruelly realistic dream. But this had to be real. The fingers splayed across his bare chest, the puffs of breath along his shoulder, that touch of moisture that might've been a bit of drool - there was no way he was making this up.

But what did it mean?

_ Nothing, _ his brain argued. _ Drunken affection. Be cool about this one thing, since you couldn't keep your mouth shut about anything else. Enjoy it for what it is but don't make a big deal about it. _

Taron heaved as quiet a sigh as he could manage. This felt good - too good, and he hated himself for feeling pleased about a situation that could only be the result of two friends who had consumed entirely too much alcohol. Acting out sleeping together hadn't been the way it was meant to happen, and this farce was no better. It was as though life was giving him hints of what he wanted, without any kind of grounding in legitimacy.

"Super unfair," Taron whispered to the ceiling. 

It might've been hours or minutes, but the time before Taron was finally able to fall back asleep felt like an eternity - and perhaps there was a tiny part of him that wanted to prolong the feeling of Richard wrapped around him for as long as was permissible. When Taron did pass out, he dreamt of dancing and crowds and a man he couldn't quite find in the throng.

\--

The next time Taron woke up, sunlight was filtering through the curtains - and hell, did it sting. He narrowed his eyes against the radiant assault and rolled away from the window, grumbling some form of half-asleep protest.

Seconds later, he clued into the fact that he was now in bed alone, and he sat up with a start.

"Morning sunshine," Richard greeted from the desk across the room. He was already fully dressed and groomed to perfection, looking nothing like a man who had been three sheets to the wind the night prior. "Thought you might never wake up."

Taron groaned and slumped back into the bed. "Tempting." 

"I was going to ask if you wanted breakfast, but you look like shit. No offense."

"I believe it." A vague sense of some earlier line reading cruised somewhere across Taron's mind, but Richard's amicable intonation was a far cry from Reid's cutting jab. "Right now I need a paracetamol and some water before I leap off that balcony."

"Drama queen. I'll get it for you."

"In the bath, by the sink." Taron watched through squinted eyes as Richard strode to the bathroom to find the medication, trying to gauge any sense of discomfort in the air. But for all Taron knew, he was the only one in some kind of state from sharing a bed for the evening. Go figure. Damn Madden and his wretched placidity.

Richard returned with a glass of water, which he handed to Taron along with two gel capsules. "Bottoms up," he instructed, with a sly grin that Taron didn't know how to read.

"Thanks mate." Taron obliged and downed the meds gratefully, chugging most of the water in one go. "Fucking hell, at this rate I'll still be hungover by the time we shoot tomorrow."

"Eh, downside to having fun," Richard said with one lifted shoulder. "You'll live. You really ought to get something to eat, though, assuming you can keep it down."

"Yeah, you're right. Just going to shower first." Taron finished the water and set the glass aside, now feeling sloshy on top of sore all over. "Dunno how you're already set to go, you lunatic."

"Practice. Don't know if that's something to be proud of." Richard grinned again. "By the way, you'll have to forgive me for getting a wee bit too cosy last night. Forgot to warn you I'm a bit of a close sleeper."

Even when admitting to affection slightly beyond the pale, Richard could remain cool as anything. If Taron had been the one admitting to the nighttime cuddle, he would have been more apoplectic than apologetic. But here Richard was, brushing it off like the nothing it had been, and despite Taron's relief, he was hit with yet another wave of envy. If only it was so easy for everyone!

"Really? Don't think I noticed." The lie came easily to Taron, even if his voice cracked a tad as he said it. He cleared his throat and rearranged his face into a smile. "I knew you couldn't get enough of me after yesterday."

"You got me," Richard replied. "I thought you wouldn't go for the kiss, but..."

Taron figured he must have blanched, because Richard broke into laughter at the sight of him.

"I'm kidding, T. Close your mouth before you let the flies in."

"Don't do that to me," Taron admonished, trying to sound more affronted by the implication that they had kissed than bizarrely disappointed that it was only a joke. "You can't go taking advantage of the drunken idiot."

"Or the hungover one, clearly." Richard's face was now pleasant and inscrutable once more. "Go shower, you beautiful fool. I'm famished."

"All right, _ dad _."

Taron was grateful for the chance to shower, because it meant he could get his thoughts in order before going out to breakfast. By the time he had dragged himself out of bed, into the bathroom, and under the scalding hot water, the headache that had plagued him since waking was finally beginning to subside, and he felt as though he could begin to think clearly.

So they had gotten drunk. Very drunk. And Richard knew he had been wrapped around Taron - perhaps they had woken up in that position - but either he didn't recall the reciprocal pose from earlier on in the night, or he was being kind enough to omit it. Taron decided he was okay with it either way, as he didn't feel like explaining his own actions when Richard had such a simple time writing off his own. If Richard was at all bothered by the night's events, he wasn't showing it, but Taron believed that the lack of awkwardness was genuine. Richard continued to prove himself to be a true gentleman through and through.

"You're such a fucking idiot," Taron said aloud as he scrubbed shampoo through his hair. "Such an idiot. Now what are you going to do?"

The only right answer was nothing at all. Even if Richard was fine with the occasional inebriated display of physical affection between friends, it didn't mean that he thought there was anything more to the situation. And Taron knew he ought to keep his big mouth shut and preserve that particular peace, especially with who knows how many more hours of shooting they would have to do together. Taron did his best to act objectively, but he had a notion that their onscreen chemistry might suffer slightly if he led Richard to believe that he was madly in love or something.

Not that Taron was madly in love, of course. 

Richard was just... well, he was something. Something that Taron still had a difficult time describing beyond "best mate" and "like a brother to me" and "witty and intelligent" and "quite handsome" and...

Taron groaned again. Two days ago - even twenty-four hours ago, before that bloody sex scene - he had been doing so well. And now it had all gone to shit.

"Idiot," Taron repeated. 

He finished showering and dried himself off, almost wishing that he could have just drowned and gotten it all over with. Even cleaned up, he felt as though Richard looked so much more put together, but that just seemed to be the norm. Taron, the utter mess, and Richard, the poised image of grace. Perhaps with enough time spent together, Taron could learn the tricks of comporting himself in a way that exuded quiet dignity even in the face of high stress circumstances... or in a way that didn't leave him as readable as an open book.

Then again, as he already knew, spending more time together wasn't likely to help him at all.

\--

Another day of filming cleared, and Taron was the most wiped he had been thus far. Choreographed dance shoots had the tendency to do that to a person, and the hours he had spent dancing around had felt like several weeks' worth of exercise - and that wasn't even counting the practice and rehearsals from previous days. The only kindness was that they had finished the day with the considerably more low-energy opening to the dance sequence.

It was a bittersweet sort of favour, as the scene had involved snogging Richard in a closet, but Taron couldn't very well bring himself to complain. This was the first time they had filmed anything intimate since the whole sex bit, and Taron was torn between fear that he would backslide horribly and a very inappropriate excitement.

The crew had mostly filtered away from the set by now, save for a few members who were fussing with cameras and packing up equipment for the day. A few techs had stuck around to help him undress and clear away the makeup, but now it was only Taron hanging back, staring at the half-built closet that had served as the hiding spot for Elton and Reid's reunion kiss. In the moment it hadn't felt much like a set at all - Taron had been dreading and anticipating the kiss so much that he might have very well been Elton waiting for Reid to return.

Taron chewed his bottom lip, imagining that he could still taste Richard on his mouth. Yes, playing out the smitten desperation had been the easiest thing to perform so far. Richard's response had been equally as keen, but anyone could have chalked that up to acting the part, as he was supposed to do. Still, it had been... nice.

Too nice. 

Since their little hotel room stay, Taron had been making a very concentrated effort not to stray beyond the bounds of strictly platonic behaviour. He had entertained the thought of re-repressing all of his silly urges, hoping that maybe sweeping it all under the rug again would help it all fade into a non-issue once more. Life had been so much easier when he had been able to pass off his strange attraction as the ramifications of role immersion.

Realistically, he knew that there was no good way to shove that cat back into any sort of bag, but it was fun to pretend that he hadn't completely fucked himself over on the feelings front.

But at least he could ignore it. Until he was kissing Richard again, anyway.

Taron was in the middle of mentally replaying the scene for the millionth time when footsteps behind him rose him from the reverie.

"See anything interesting?" Richard's unmistakable accent met Taron's ears and went straight to his throat, which knotted up immediately.

"I, uh -" Taron spluttered, spinning around to face Richard, who was looking dashing as ever in his streetwear. "Sorry, was just... lost in thought there."

"Figured as much," Richard replied with one corner of his lips upturned. "I didn't think the closet was all that interesting, myself."

Taron raised a hand to his chest, as if wounded. "You really think so little of me?"

"Ah, you're right." Richard chuckled. "That must've been Reid talking - forgive me."

Taron tutted, but privately he felt a small thrill of joy. _ Stop that _, he self-admonished, but with the memory of clinging to Richard fresh in his mind and the man himself standing right before him, looking unfairly tantalising in an unzipped athletic jacket and tailored jeans, it was impossible to adhere to his resolutions fully.

"Why're you still here?" Taron asked - not that he had any excuse for lingering either, but he doubted Richard had hung around just to reminisce over a phony closet tryst.

Richard shrugged. "No plans for the evening. Was thinking of seeing what you're up to. I didn't expect it to be quite this... riveting."

"Piss off," Taron said, amicably enough. "You're free to join me in my meditations, though. It's good for you."

"I thought meditation was best enjoyed with candles and incense, but if you're the expert..." Richard walked forward, past Taron and toward the entrance of the closet. The movement was so similar to the scene they had filmed that he might have been retracing the exact steps. Taron half expected Richard to pause and urge him forward with a jut of the chin, but instead Richard was checking his phone. Sign of the times.

Taron's turncoat heart had quickened to its racing beat. He recognised that the days of feigned disaffection had done nothing to rebuild his defenses, and already he was back to square one. Or maybe it was a few squares along - wherever the point had been that he had finally admitted to his little problem. 

But this... this was hardly his own fault, because what in the hell was Richard playing at? The man made nothing easy, and he didn't seem to realise just how much power he wielded. Taron was left to pine like a fool and Richard was free to stroll along, none the wiser and all the more alluring for it. What a wretched enigma.

"Did you want to grab a drink or something?" Taron ventured. It took restraint not to follow Richard and push him into the bloody closet and let this whole stupid dance come to an end. 

"After the other night, I might be set for a bit," Richard said. 

"I said a drink, not a dozen." Taron felt himself growing more flustered. Richard was making zero indication as to what he wanted, and Taron didn't dare allow himself to imagine it was anything along the lines of what had been keeping him preoccupied for the last little while... but lord, was it tempting.

Richard glanced up from his phone and pocketed it. "What do you want, T?"

"Well," Taron began, but there were absolutely no words at the ready that wouldn't incriminate him. He couldn't even summon up a good fib on the spot. Instead he was left to stare dumbly at Richard, fully at a loss, levelled by Richard's annoyingly blank stare. 

Richard raised his brow questioningly. It felt like a challenge, but there was no way - it couldn't be - Taron bit his tongue to keep himself from blurting out anything stupid, given that very stupid things were the only answers coming to mind. 

"I didn't realise it was such a big question." Richard's mouth crooked into a smile. "I can leave you to it."

"No, no, I -" Taron blurted, still with no clue as to how to proceed. "I think I'm just… pretty out of it, you know? Long day and all that." He let out something that might have been a laugh if there had been any trace of humour to it.

"I get it, mate," Richard said in a tone so sympathetic it bordered on patronising, and Taron felt more idiotic than ever. "I'm serious. You get back to the hotel, get some rest. We'll see each other tomorrow. Don't fret about it."

"I... yeah." There was no getting himself out of this one without telling Richard precisely what was catching him up, and this was neither the time nor the place. It was never going to be the time or the place. "Yeah, probably a good idea. Sorry. I won't be such a basketcase tomorrow, I promise."

"That's a big ask," Richard said, punctuating it with a wink. "Take care of yourself." Then he was heading off, clapping Taron on the shoulder as he went past. 

"Be seeing you," Taron called weakly, not turning to see Richard leave. 

Great. Not only had he faltered on his repression plans in a spectacular way, but he had behaved like a bonafide moron - yet again! - in front of Richard himself. If Richard started telling people that Taron was in the middle of a mental break, Taron wouldn't have blamed him - but of course that wouldn't happen. Richard actually cared, after all. Wasn't that part of the issue? Richard and his damned... being a good person. A good, kind, attractive person that Taron thought of far too often for his own mental health.

Taron exhaled hard through pursed lips and ran a hand through his hair. Richard really, truly wasn't making this easy for him, and there was no calling him out with revealing all of the cards. If this was a game, then the odds were stacked against Taron, and winning was looking increasingly impossible.

Not that he knew what winning would entail. Suddenly moving on with no consequence? Perhaps. Bodily throwing himself at Richard off-set in a fit of reciprocated passion? Most appealing.

By this juncture, Taron couldn't say which of the two options was more unlikely. 

\--

All things considered, Taron was very proud of himself.

After the latest nigh-disastrous encounter that had put him seriously at risk of ruining his easy rapport with Richard forever, Taron had made it a point to, for lack of a better phrase, get his shit together before everything went feet up. He had employed the practices of meditative contemplation, controlled breathing, and systematically going through every interaction to disprove that anything could have been construed as more than platonic on Richard's part. 

For too long Taron had allowed himself to run with each minor gesture of affection -_ friendly _affection - thus corroborating the erroneous assumption that his pointless little crush was a mutual affair. He knew that the moment he admitted to his own problem extending beyond that pesky role immersion was the point at which he had let an overactive imagination get the better of him. Suddenly every normal thing Richard did could have been interpreted as a potential flirtation rather than the generic banter that it likely was. Taron knew schoolyard crushes had a way of doing that to a person, and so he tried not to feel too guilty about letting himself get too involved in the fantasy.

Really, it was freeing to go back to their usual routine, so to speak. Convincing himself that Richard couldn't possibly feel the same way had been instrumental in finding personal reassurance that the situation would, in fact, become easier as they went along. For the first time in weeks, Taron felt as though he could act like a regular human being again, not like some high-strung loon caught up in an imaginary romance (off camera, anyhow). Not to mention that relaxing and no longer self-checking that Richard might cotton onto the attraction at every turn was a weight off of Taron's shoulders. 

Taron knew that calming the fuck down was the only way he could have possibly survived the carpool karaoke bit, and he was grateful to his own stupid brain for getting his nonsense in check before that day. Otherwise he wasn't sure how he would have endured everything from being confined together in a car for hours to the date-esque sketches. Taron wasn't sure who wrote the script, but whoever it was clearly had something out for him.

But he was better now. So much so that they had gotten wasted together the previous night with no incident. He could even joke about their many onscreen kisses - and even egg Richard into almost sharing a moment for the dash cameras. Taron had guffawed at the gesture, even if something in his chest seemed to tighten at the cringe of disgust on Richard's face. But no matter - Taron knew the score, and he was over it! It was fine!

Still, the ordeal had been tiring, and he was thankful when they finally pulled back into the studio lot. A few techs moved in to remove the mics and retrieve the footage, chattering about how well they had done. Years ago Taron couldn't have imagined a time that his singing would be any more public than personal shower concerts, and hearing people congratulate him on his voice was still a bit strange. 

Richard, on the other hand, had long since admitted to not being a performer. "Glad that's over with," he said, raising a hand in thank to the techs as they retreated toward the studio. "Here's hoping you drowned me out."

"You did fine, mate," Taron scoffed. "It's all for fun anyway." 

"Speak for yourself," Richard replied, though he smiled as he said it. It was a similar look to the one he had worn while watching Taron sing - because, despite himself, Taron had noted that Richard had spent more time watching than participating. But of course Taron tried not to think too much on it.

"Did you have plans?" Taron asked. "I was gonna go grab chips - you know, since they didn't actually let us enjoy that lovely picnic."

"Sounds delightful." Richard fussed with his collar - buttoned to the very top, of course, as if to shield himself from any vulnerability while the cameras were watching. "Nearby?"

"I was actually going to grab a Turo. There's this spot a bit outside of town - great food, not a ton of people."

Once they had nabbed and set off in their rental car, Taron noted how nice it felt to be driving without the scrutiny of a potential audience. No more need to ham it up or perform - just regular conversation and their own choice of music. Taron had given DJ control over to Richard, who had been shuffling through rock numbers of the 90s and early 2000s.

"Are you much of a singer when you're on your own?" Richard asked.

Taron had been tapping along to the beat on the steering wheel, tempted to hum but resisting thus far, so he could see why Richard might have asked. "Ah, now and then. I'm trying to be nice to you now, though. You’ve heard enough today."

"Oh, please. Here's, what's your favourite?" Richard waggled his phone in Taron's line of sight. "To sing, I mean."

"Don't do this to me," Taron said with a shy laugh. Singing for the cameras was one thing, but serenading a friend on demand was quite another. Somehow it was so much easier to shed his nerves when he knew the performance was for some other calling. Recording a bit for the movie? Simple. Being asked to choose which tune he'd like to belt out for Richard alone? Daunting.

"Come on," Richard goaded. He raised his hands beside his head in a gesture of innocence. "I won't laugh."

"Promise you're not taking the piss?"

"Never."

Taron exhaled hard. "All right. Do you have The Darkness on there?"

Richard barked a laugh. "Yes, excellent. Here, just a sec -"

The familiar opening riff of "I Believe in a Thing Called Love" was playing within seconds, and miraculously, Taron felt his performance anxiety slide away. The same energy he had channelled throughout the carpool karaoke returned with vigour as he rocked his head to the rhythm, mentally preparing himself for the challenging falsetto awaiting him.

_ "Can't explain all these feelings that you're making me feel _-" 

The somewhat loaded lyrics didn't occur to Taron as he lost himself to the song. It absolutely was one of his favourites to sing, difficulties with the range aside, because it was just so darn _ fun _. Anything that allowed him to don an overexaggerated air of glam rock showmanship was always a great time, and even the fact that Richard was his only audience member couldn't dampen that enthusiasm.

Taron was only partially aware of Richard watching him in much the same way he had during the filming, face glowing with that wide grin of pleased incredulity on his face. It was perhaps the most candid expression of Richard's mood that Taron had witnessed in weeks, but he didn't mind the warm scrutiny; if anything he felt even more invigorated knowing that he wasn't botching The Darkness too horribly.

The song ended before Taron knew it, and he was almost let down. "I was just hitting my stride," he lamented. "Should've done that one for the karaoke"

"No kidding," Richard said with a chuckle. "That was quite a show."

As the music transitioned into the next song, Taron felt the slow creep of self-awareness return. He could still feel Richard's eyes on him and he didn't dare glance to the passenger seat. "Just for you, love," Taron said, though his attempt at an easy endearment suddenly sounded much too real to be funny. "You get the next one though, yeah?"

"Only if you want your ears to start bleeding." 

Taron laughed a little, but the sound seemed to get strangled in his throat. All at once he considered the lyrics of the song he had selected without thinking, struck for the first time in weeks by the fear that Richard might have read more into what had just happened than intended. 

_ No, none of this _ , Taron thought. _ You've been doing so well. Let it go. _

But letting it go was just so difficult when Richard was right there, maybe still watching him, maybe wondering if Taron had just confessed through a song, maybe remembering sharing the bed together that one night, maybe thinking about Taron leaping on his back, Taron kissing his cheek, Taron moving to kiss him on the mouth - 

"Oh, shit," Taron murmured under the music so that Richard couldn't hear.

"You good?" 

Taron realised he had been staring in the direction of the road without really seeing it at all for who knows how long. Fortunately they were out of the city by now, travelling along a route with few cars and fewer obstacles. 

"Yeah, yeah of course." Taron shook his head slightly. "Singer's regret, maybe?"

"No need." Richard brushed his knuckles against Taron's upper arm. "Breathe easy, mate. I'm not judging."

"Better not," Taron said. "I did that for you."

"I know."

Taron's mouth went dry. Weeks of progress seemed to be sliding down the tubes with so little effort. For what might have been the thousandth time, Taron cursed himself for being so weak for this one man. Now he was going to have to start the repression process all over again.

"Hey T."

"Yeah mate." For the first time, Taron didn't hear what Richard wanted to say.

"D'you think you could find a place to pull over? I need to piss."

Taron bit back a nervous giggle. "You've got the bladder the size of a walnut, I swear." The relief was faint but welcome; the knot in his chest he hadn't known was there suddenly unfurled a tad, and he could breathe normally again. He never thought he would've been so happy to make a pit stop.

There was a petrol station not far up the road. Taron pulled into the lot and was debating grabbing something to drink when Richard tapped him on the shoulder.

Despite a very loud voice in his brain urging him not to do so, Taron turned to face Richard, whose expression was uncharacteristically trepidatious.

"Yeah?" Taron said in that too-shrill voice he hated.

Richard was biting the inside of his lip, looking to be considering something deeply. "Can I ask you something?"

"Go for it." Taron might have been choking on his own heart, so high had it leapt in his throat. So much time and effort to keep his feelings hidden, only to be busted in the end. His ability to lie his way out of this confrontation would make or break their friendship from this point onward, but knowing how poorly the mistruths came to him in his stress predicaments, Taron already felt doomed.

_ Well done, _he told himself.

Richard still hadn't said anything, though it might have only been an instant since Taron had given him the go-ahead. All sense of time and reason had left the building the moment Richard had gotten his attention.

Taron used the several-second eternity to consider the man in front of him, thinking about his own ability to study the unspoken traits and behaviours of others in order to improve his ability to emulate motives while acting, and how that had failed him when it came to figuring Richard out. At least their kinship had been as fast as it was thoughtless, the two falling into step as friends as effortlessly as breathing. Taron had connected with Richard unlike any person he had worked with previously, immediately comfortable with him both onscreen and off, but if Richard wanted to remain private about something, there was little Taron could do to unearth the secrets. 

The unknown was what had caused him so much turmoil over the course of filming, and it certainly wasn't helping him now, what with Richard levelling him with his incalculable blue eyes.

The silence dragged onward. No longer able to endure the suspense despite his terror, Taron raised his brow to urge Richard onward.

Richard opened his mouth - closed it - laughed a little - 

"Taron... this is going to sound absolutely mental, but... can I kiss you?"

There were several more enduring seconds before Taron could accept that he hadn't misheard the question.

Incredibly, his first reaction was to laugh. "I'm sorry, you want... what now?"

Richard's face shifted from cautious to abashed, though a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I know. Just... yes or no will do."

Taron could do little more than gape at Richard, who hadn't yet broken the act to laugh it off as the jest that Taron had been so sure it might be. No, Richard was serious. And Taron was flummoxed.

"Why?" he asked, knowing he sounded like a dumb twat but unable to do anything about it.

"Dunno. Probably the same reasons you've been working with."

If Taron's heart hadn't been staggering before, then it was tripping over itself now. He felt ashamed and vulnerable and over the moon all at once, torn between the mortifying knowledge that Richard had read him like a book and starry-eyed disbelief that he wasn't alone.

"I... yeah," Taron stammered. "Yeah, please do."

Richard's responding grin communicated a wordless affection for Taron's clumsy excitement - so like Reid and Elton, and yet not - and then he was closing the distance between them and their lips were meeting, for real this time, with no cameras to document the process.

It was a simple thing, brief; Taron felt like a teen on a first date, eyes closed and tentatively pressing his mouth against Richard's as his heartbeat continued to pound. He had half a mind to bring his hand up and cup Richard's face, but even that felt like too much, as though going that far would ruin the illusion. 

As soon as it started, it was over, Richard pulling back just enough to meet Taron's gaze - Taron, whose eyes drifted open lazily like he was waking from a dream. 

"Thank you for indulging me," Richard said, voice husky in a way that raised the hairs on the back of Taron's neck. "I guess I was just curious."

"No trouble at all," Taron said. He was struck by the absurdity that Richard considered it some kind of favour. "Curious about what?"

Richard shrugged one shoulder. "If it would feel just as good while we aren't acting."

"I don't think I was ever acting." Taron cringed the moment the cheesy admission left his mouth. "Sorry. That was dreadful."

"Don't worry. You're still cute." 

Richard had probably said something similar a handful of times, usually in the midst of having a laugh or trying to get under Taron's skin, but knowing there was some degree of honesty to the comment gave Taron a sort of silly, fluttery feeling in his midsection. If he had felt like a schoolboy with a crush before, he was now head over heels with dumbstruck infatuation. He could even feel himself blushing.

"Go on then," Taron said with a weak attempt at bravado. "What took you so long?"

"I could ask you the same question," Richard replied, eyes glinting with knowing mischief. "You'll have to forgive me for taking the time to decipher your wishy-washy prancing about."

"Well, can you really blame me?" Taron lamented. He already wanted to kiss Richard again, but he supposed there were conversations they needed to have first. Weeks' worth of conversations, apparently shoved aside by the both of them in their mutual uncertainty. Taron was still awed by the very idea.

Richard shot him a wry smile. "I suppose not. But I think you owe me now."

Much as Taron wanted to make good on that debt in short order, he held himself back. There were still too many questions. "You owe _me_ some explanations," he said. "You still didn't really say why." _ Why _ was the question of the hour; Taron could have listed a dozen reasons why Richard had captured his attention, but part of Taron's laborious repression exercise had entailed a reasonable amount of self-deprecation.

"Do you need a why?" Richard laughed and placed a hand on Taron's knee, which only served to redouble the fluttering Taron felt. "I like you. Is that enough?"

Taron tried to summon actual words in reply, but all he could manage were widened eyes and a noise of hesitant assent. He was too aware of the way Richard's thumb was stroking across his knee, sending frissons along his every nerve. 

"I know it's a big request," Richard said with a wink, "but try not to think too much about it."

"Good luck," Taron said weakly. His eyes kept flicking down to Richard's lips, and any remaining resistance was eroding rapidly. "We should. We should probably talk about it sometime."

"Probably." Then Richard was kissing him again and Taron forgot about the whys and wherefores. Richard's indecipherable thoughts be damned - they were snogging in a car and there wasn't much else to say on the matter. Not in that moment.

Through the heady bliss, Taron could identify passing worries flitting through his mind. What if this was temporary? Or ruinous to their friendship? Or just a bad idea in general? Something resembling common sense (though it was more likely just more of that self-imposed negativity) was trying to dissuade him from this course of action, but the stressors were fleeting. More important was how good it felt to bury his fingers in Richard's hair and guide him into the kiss Taron had been craving since he could remember.

There would be opportunities to beat himself up for this later on. For the time being, he had done enough holding back. 

And, wonder of wonders, the kissing felt much better offscreen.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry this is tropey af but sometimes it's what the heart craves


End file.
